


Doward Spirals and Waterslides

by sarahyellow



Series: Twelve Steps to Sober [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Steter - Freeform, implied self harm, slutty stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:38:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn’t seen Stiles in months. No one except Scott has. Not since the sheriff’s funeral. Not since Stiles got accepted to UCLA and ran off to immerse himself in his studies. Or well, at least that’s what they’d thought he’d been immersing himself in. Peter stares at the dancing kid before him, still taken aback at the reality of the situation.</p><p>Or: when Peter and Stiles start sleeping together and it's probably going to be a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doward Spirals and Waterslides

Peter has his fourth drink in hand by the time the night gets interesting. It’s a Manhattan that he’s working on now, though he’s far too intoxicated to appreciate the quality of the aged bourbon. The place he’s at not only uses good liquor, but also infuses a generous amount of wolfsbane for those _particular_ customers seeking it. As a result, Peter is now drunk.

The place is one of only a few of its ilk that he’s been able to locate over the years. Establishments that cater to supposedly non-existent clients have a limited number of advertising options, after all. And so there aren’t a lot of designated shifter bars/clubs/back rooms in existence. But that’s to be expected when most people still don’t know that werewolves exist. 

That afternoon, Peter had dug around in his closet until he’d found something that made him look particularly… virile. Now here he is, ready to get laid by some desperate human or unsuccessful wolf. Either-or, he isn’t picky. This particular club is a place that’s garnered a reputation for human-wolf hookups.  
Couples in the establishment prove the point well enough. There are many men whose scents tell Peter that they’re crossing the species divide, Stiles being one of them. 

STILES. 

Peter nearly spits his mouthful of bourbon onto the floor when he sees him walking through the crowd. Stiles and his companion are dressed for an evening out dancing, and they seem slightly loosened up even as they approach the bar for the first time. Peter deduces that they’ve pre-gamed to some extent. Or at least Stiles has. 

Peter is only a few seats down from where they sidle up, but Stiles doesn’t notice him. Peter is drunk and intrigued and uses this to his advantage. He eavesdrops. Stiles is the first to order, flagging down the bartender with a flirtatious smirk and a credit card. “Stilinski tab,” he tells the man once he has his attention, and the man seems to know what that means. Peter raises his eyebrows. Apparently Stiles is a frequent enough customer to warrant verbal recognition from the employees. While they’re waiting for drinks, Stiles entertains himself by chatting with his friend. They keep their bodies close enough and brush against one another more than casually.

They’re boyfriends, Peter figures. He can’t hear enough of their conversation to confirm otherwise. He feels equal parts amused and outraged at this. Amused because, well, it’s _Stiles_ we’re talking about here. Peter can hardly believe this polished, nighttime, gay version of him even exists. Peter’s never, ever sexualized Stiles before, and that’s where the outraged part of it comes in. When he sees the stranger rub his thumbs along Stiles’ hipbones, Peter wants to rip them away and replace them with his own. And that’s ludicrous, isn’t it?

He really has to consider if maybe he’s been making a giant mistake in ignoring Stiles all this time.

Stiles-and-friend are delivered their beers, Stiles’ marked by the conspicuous pink tape that signifies it as wolfsbane-free. Peter watches Stiles’ jaw work as he tosses back a sip and the man in front of him kisses his neck. The man kissing him is tall, rugged, and very comfortable with public displays of affection. But then again, so are all of the patrons of this club. It’s just that none of the other patrons are kissing Stiles. When he gets a chance, Peter orders another drink in quick succession to the one previous. 

He sips it thoughtfully as he watches Stiles and his date slip out onto the dance floor. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter vaguely considers that everything he thinks he knows about Stiles could go out the window tonight.

The man with Stiles is taller than Peter, but not as well built as him—one of those wolfs that relies on what nature gives him, never contemplating a gym membership. Peter snorts. But Stiles seems into him. More than that, really. The kid is dirty dancing with his wolf, allowing the man to touch anything, anywhere. Stiles’ twenty year old body looks delicious in what he’s wearing, and hey: who knew the human was capable of dressing so well? Peter doesn’t _think_ he’s ever seen Stiles in anything but a tee-shirt or hoodie, but then again, he’s never seen him in a gay club either. Peter feels like he’s found out something naughty and wonderful to know that Stiles Stilinski, of all people, is into men. 

It’s not all he’s into apparently. Once Peter gets a little closer he can see the old and new cuts up Stiles’ bared arm. He sees the bruising on his neck. Stiles’ date cannot be unaware of them, Peter thinks. No one could. And indeed, in time Peter sees the wolf run his hands over the marks, pressing just hard enough that it _has_ to hurt. Stiles shivers, but not at all in a displeased way. There’s an almost vicious sort of enjoyment of it in Stiles’ features. This both arouses and worries Peter. Stiles dances harder against the man behind him and Peter has to tame the urge to rip the two of them away from each other. He wonders how many of those marks the wolf has personally put onto Stiles’ body. He wonders how long Stiles has been letting him.

Stiles’ date holds his hips while they sway and roll to the music, bodies plastered front to back just like everyone else there. That’s when Stiles happens to look up and catch sight of Peter watching him. Peter smirks and waves from the bar, and though Stiles seems shaken, he does keep dancing. Maye he likes taunting Peter. Maybe being found out like this makes his dangerous game—whatever it is—that much more exciting. His burning eyes do not pull away from Peter. 

They don’t do anything but stare at each other for a long while. Stiles doesn’t seem to know what else to do, and Peter is quite enjoying himself. He sips his drink even though he’s probably had enough, and watches Stiles grind himself back into his boyfriend with languid motions. Peter tries to look at Stiles with all the questions he’s thinking, and by the way that Stiles looks back, he’s quite sure that the message is clear. _What are you doing here?_ Peter wants to ask. _Is this what you’ve been doing all this time? And what exactly are you doing? Would a better person be worried?_

He hasn’t seen Stiles in months. No one except Scott has. Not since the sheriff’s funeral. Not since Stiles got accepted to UCLA and ran off to immerse himself in his studies. Or well, at least that’s what they’d _thought_ he’d been immersing himself in. Peter stares at the dancing kid before him, still taken aback at the reality of the situation.

Packs wax and they wane, Peter reminds himself. That’s just how it works. It’s not like Stiles was the first to leave. Danny and Ethan shacked up in San Fran over a year ago, and by logical extension they joined the local pack. Allison and Isaac moved away as well. The only reason they managed to maintain pack bonds was due to Allison’s flexible job schedule. And Peter, well… Peter was only just barely back in the fold. Time would tell if he remained that way. 

So it’s really not as though Stiles was the first one to leave. He wasn’t. The Hale pack, such that it is, hasn’t been the biggest or most stable since its near-incineration twelve years ago. But with the unlikely help of a bunch of halfwit teenagers, they’d wound up forming something resembling an extended family. And just when they’d been approaching one of the rare periods of minimal supernatural drama, Sheriff Stilinski had been murdered and Stiles had fled. He wasn’t the first to go, but he was the first one to go where it just didn’t feel quite right.

Peter never bothered getting upset about it. That he left to Scott and Lydia and (even though his nephew would never admit it) to Derek. So it’s not like, _relief_ , or whatever that Peter feels when he finds Stiles. It’s just that he never expected to find him here, of all places. A gay shifter club in LA? Not one of the pack should have ever had reason to run into Peter tonight.

Not that Stiles is pack. He isn’t in the traditional sense. He’s entirely human, always has been. It’s just that Derek’s pack has an odd roster, and you don’t necessarily have to turn furry every month to qualify for membership. You don’t even technically have to share the same goals with them—Peter is proof enough of that. Stiles at least was always more buddy-buddy with the others. Or at least he was until the whole mess with his dad went down. Now he’s swapped places with Peter as the pack pariah and it’s nothing less than a shock for Peter to have been the one to discover him here. 

He doesn’t look the same, and it’s not just the clothes and the club lights. There’s a careless look to Stiles now; an overly hair-gelled, fuzzy-eyed sort of indulgent nihilism that Peter swears he hasn’t seen in the kid’s eyes since the nogitsune left his body. Winding his way closer through the crowd, he knows the exact moment that Stiles figures out his intentions. The kid breaks away from his date and mouths something that’s surely along the lines of, “going to the bathroom.” He eyes Peter pointedly as he stomps away.

They’re the only two in there when Peter steps through the door. Stiles is in his face immediately, and he doesn’t look happy. “Leave me alone,” he says brusquely, as if Peter is his parent, come snooping around Stiles’ college stomping grounds. Past the scent of the urinals, Peter can smell the cherry vodka on his breath. Stiles moves to push past Peter to leave, but Peter reaches out and stops him. 

“Wait a sec.”

“Leave me alone Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t under the impression that I’d been doing anything _but_ leaving you alone.”

“You’ve been staring at me since I got here,” Stiles accuses.

Peter can only offer a shrug. “I’ve been staring at a lot of people on and off tonight. You’re just the best one to stare at right now.” He knows that Stiles won’t take it as a come on, but in a startling way, he kind of wishes he would. 

“So you’re spying on me. Who sent you?” Stiles asks. “Was it Scott? Derek? You can tell them I’m fine. I’m not doing anything dangerous.”

Peter makes a face. “Why would Scott or Derek think you were in danger? Do they think you’re doing something dangerous?” His eyes narrow in on the marks up Stiles’ arm. From this distance, Peter can tell that they’re from a thin blade. And given the angle and location, probably self-inflicted. “What _have_ you been doing?” Peter asks suspiciously, grip tightening on Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles stares dumbly for a moment. His heartrate increases. He realizes that though Scott may know about his personal problems of late, he actually hasn’t said a word about them to anyone (not even Derek and certainly not Peter). By extension, Stiles realizes he has said too much. “Nothing,” he hurries, pulling his arm away from Peter. “Just… stay away from me. I’m trying to have some fun.”

“What? So am I.”

Stiles is already on his way out the door, yelling back, “You’re not even gay!”

It’s only once the bathroom door has swung shut again that Peter replies, “Says who?”

 

An hour later Stiles has his back to the wall, his hands reached down and cradling the head of his boyfriend as it works between his thighs. He’s not the only man getting a blowjob in the back room, but he’s the only one Peter sees. Of course nothing is actually _visible_. Peter’s directly across from them and all he can see is the back of what’s-his-face’s head. Not very fascinating. But Stiles… 

He’s beautiful like this, getting his cock sucked down another man’s throat. The reactions, the small groans and tensions that pinch his face. He’d be intoxicating, if Peter didn’t already have the liquor to blame that on. He vaguely wonders if that’s the point of it all. In the soft blue light of the back room, Peter can make out the lines of Stiles’ jaw when he gasps, his arms when he clenches his date, his hips when he thrusts forward desperately. An orgasm isn’t enough to end the night, though it is pretty to look at, splattered along the wolf’s cheek as it is. Peter knows that if he gets a chance he’ll put a stop to this.

He just has to figure out how that is going to happen without killing Stiles’ boyfriend.

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

In the end he decides to shift, using the uncommon form of his wolf to terrify Stiles’ date away. Most werewolves are completely incapable of a full shift, and Peter knows that approaching as a full-fledged wolf will get his message of dominance across to the other shifter quicker than anything else. Peter is only a beta, but with a show like this, Stiles’ boyfriend will assume otherwise. 

He finds the two of them as they’re going down the alley. They both turn quickly at the sound of his growl in the darkness. Peter pads out from behind a dumpster, and where Stiles’ features morph into an expression of _What The Fuck_ and _Pissed_ , the boyfriend’s features turn into a look of intimidation and fear, his eyes flashing yellow. _Good_ , Peter thinks. This punk recognizes what he’s up against. Peter doesn’t even have to chase him off. One lope forward and a flash of fang, and the man is hightailing it out of the alley with barely a backwards glance spared for poor Stiles.

Stiles stands there with folded arms and a scowl as Peter’s naked body erupts from the wolf, human once again. “What the hell!? I was going home with him!” Stiles yells. 

Peter bends over shamelessly to pick up his discarded clothes, shrugging them back on. “Yeah? Well now you’re going home with me.” Stiles snorts. “Besides,” Peter points out with a simper, “What kind of boyfriend was he, when he’d have left his human all on his own to face the big, bad wolf?”

“More like the big, stupid, pain-in-my-ass wolf.” Stiles would normally have the decency to be a bit more creative with his adjectives, but he’s had a lot to drink. He suspects Peter has too, to have him acting so irresponsibly as to shift in a public place. “And I’m not going anywhere with you. What was that, huh? Some macho werewolf display of dominance?” Stiles flails his arm out in the direction his date fled. “He’s probably going back to the club to form a posse of other werewolves to come after you.”

Peter chuckles, steps up closer to the angry kid. “Yeah probably. Does that make you feel better? Does it make you feel like your boyfriend didn’t _really_ abandon you to be devoured by a strange wolf?”

Stiles grits his teeth, for some reason blushing at the word ‘devoured’. “He’s not my boyfriend Peter. He’s just some guy. Now go away.”

Peter doesn’t raise his eyebrows even a little bit. He’s kind of thrilled inside at the thought of Stiles taking random men home. He’s even more thrilled that Stiles doesn’t have a boyfriend. The wolfsbane-laced drinks he’s been sucking down since ten have him unguarded enough to let his eyes trace up and down Stiles’ body. “You’ve done this before,” he guesses, bringing a hand up to Stiles’ shoulder. Peter can feel the way that Stiles tenses at the touch, can smell his confusion, his arousal. “Is this why you’ve been avoiding everyone?” he wonders, leaning in to sniff at the cologne that Stiles has only just barely spritzed on himself. There is the fading scent of more than one beta underneath the cologne. “They all think you hate them, that you’ve left the pack because you’ve found some better, more human life. When all along you’ve just been entertaining strange wolves?” Peter grins, not too far off from Stiles’ neck where the scent is the strongest. In front of him, Stiles might as well be made out of granite, for how rigid he’s gone. It’s clear that he doesn’t know what the hell to make of Peter touching him. There’s no blame in that really though, because Peter can’t honestly say that he knows what to make of it either. Peter sees the bruises there now, again, and his eyes flash blue. “Do they hurt you before or after they fuck you?” he hisses. He’s quick to grab Stiles’ wrist too and yank up the sleeve of his jacket. “And this? When do you do this to yourself?!”

Stiles growls. It’s human, but not without malice. It’s actually kind of adorable and it makes Peter wonder what Stiles would sound like if he could _really_ growl. “Why the hell do you care?” Stiles pulls himself a step away from Peter’s dominating posture. “Look: I know what you’re doing and you can just stop it, okay?”

“Please, tell me what it is that I’m doing.” Peter holds out both hands to show his complacence.

“You’re kissing Derek’s ass by doing what he wants: following me around and trying to lure me back.” Peter looks surprised and Stiles snorts. “Yeah. Don’t think I don’t know.”

“Know what, exactly?”

“That Scott’s convinced Derek that I’m not doing well. They they’re all hoping I’ll come back. That you’ve been trying to get back on Derek’s good side ever since you killed Deaton. You’re lucky he let you back into the pack at all.”

Peter can’t stop his frown. “It’s always good to be on your alpha’s good side Stiles. You’d remember that if you even pretended to be part of the pack anymore.”  
“Yeah well I’m not, okay?” Stiles laughs bitterly and holds out his arms, including the one with the cuts. “I’m HUMAN. Okay? I was never part of your pack.”

Peter would argue, would point out that he can hear the lie in Stiles’ heartbeat, but he refrains. He says instead, “You could be. For real. It’s not like the opportunity hasn’t presented itself.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles looks comically exasperated. “You’re really going to go there? Again? Now? Why?” Peter hasn’t tried this since that time in Stiles’ sophomore year back when he was evil and trying to kill just about everybody. And BOY, was that awkward as fuck. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, as if it’ll make him any soberer. It feels like decades have passed since sophomore year. “Are you seriously still trying this?” he asks weakly.

Peter shrugs and steps closer again. “You must be lonely. Out here in the city without your packmates, picking up wolves for what? For sex? …For _this_?” He traces the bruising on Stiles’ neck with a thumb. “To punish yourself? Or do I have it all wrong? Is it a comfort thing? Do those strange wolves come home with you and fuck you and make you feel like you have a pack again?”

Stiles shivers, but he doesn’t pull away. He looks broken down a bit, as if Peter’s words are getting to him. Carefully, he says, “You don’t get it: I don’t want a pack again. Ever. Being in a pack is what gets us humans killed okay? It’s what got my dad killed, so on principle I’m out.”

“You don’t have to be.” Peter wraps his whole hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, imagining where he’d dig his teeth in. “You have people back home that still care about you. And they don’t blame you for anything that happened.” Stiles looks away at that, and Peter gentles, “The offer still stands.”

“I don’t want the bite! How many times am I going to have to tell you that?” Sure this is only the second time, but Peter’s been known to set his mind to things. 

“What do you want then?” Peter can sense a destructive pattern in the wolves, in the bruises and the little red cuts and the rough sex that he can infer. He doesn’t like it and yet at the same time he’s morbidly curious. He’s got this bad feeling in the back of his mind like he knows where this is all headed. “What? You want to go home?”

Stiles sighs as if he hadn’t had this in mind before but now it sounds like the best idea ever. “Yeah. Yes. My car’s over here come on.”

Oh hell no. Peter’s got Stiles pulled back against his chest before Stiles even gets to the end of the alleyway. “You’re drunk,” he says to the wriggling form of the kid. “Give me your keys.”

“So what? You want to drive?” Stiles spits when he finally pulls himself free. He tosses Peter the keys as if this is his only option, but Peter pockets them.

“I’m drunk too, you idiot.”

“Well I’m not paying for a cab. I’m a cash-strapped college student you know.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but winds up whipping out his phone to order an über anyway. 

\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--

The first thing that Peter deigns to say when they enter Stiles’ apartment is, “Cash-strapped college student, huh?”

Stiles locks the door, ignoring him. “I’m getting a shower and going to bed,” he says, sounding put out. “If you want you can stay the night. There’re blankets for the couch inside the big ottoman.” A pointed finger directs Peter to the well-furnished living room. Stiles doesn’t spare him another glance as he walks off towards what must be the bathroom, and Peter is left alone to glance around. 

And by glance around, he means snoop.

It takes no amount of investigation to immediately know that Stiles isn’t poor. Peter neither sees nor smells any sign of a roommate, and he cannot figure how the kid can possibly afford a place like this. It’s no palace, but it’s nice, spacious. And it’s L.A. He goes into the living room once he hears the shower start up. There are indeed several blankets and even a pillow in the ottoman, and Peter lays them out on the couch for later. He moves around to investigate the state of Stiles’ life as best he can, looking at the mail scattered on the countertop and checking that the fridge has real food in it. It does, but there’s an alarming collection of vodka as well. Peter thinks that he’s found Stiles’ pre-gaming supplies. 

The apartment has creaky antique wooden floors that Peter has to navigate with werewolf senses to get back to the bedroom undetected. Stiles’ bed is unmade and there are textbooks and papers scattered in several locations, but nothing out of the ordinary for a college student. There’s a rather sophisticated camera on a stand, and a set of dressers along one wall that Peter vaguely remembers as being from Stiles’ room back in Beacon Hills. A large armoire sits opposing them, and Peter walks over to open it up. After all, snooping isn’t snooping if you don’t at least go through a few drawers.

Inside the cabinet is a wide array of fetish, bondage, and just general sex gear that Peter is not emotionally prepared to find. He’s still blinking at it all when Stiles steps into the room, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping, and a look on his face that says _of course you did_. He doesn’t look pleased. “I suppose you’re going to have to ask,” he says, sounding a touch annoyed. Never mind the blush that’s crawling up his neck. He pads over to one of the dressers as if this isn’t the most awkward situation of all time, grabbing things to wear and pulling them on under the towel. “So? Ask. Get it over with.”

“You think I’ll judge you for your… proclivities?” Peter asks lightly. He doesn’t have much time and is not sober enough to formulate a better response. Besides, how is one supposed to respond when they find a hidden collection of whips, chains, and dildos in someone’s closet? 

“You judged me for hooking up with werewolves,” Stiles counters. 

He turns, and the sight of him in nothing but a pair of baggy pajama pants does something for Peter. It’s not just horror he’s feeling now that he can see ALL the marks on Stiles’ body; on his chest, his sides, his arms and neck and god knows where else. It’s not just horror. It’s lust too. The undeniable urge to add his mark to the bunch clouds Peter’s forebrain, and adds to the seconds that it takes him to answer, “I… wasn’t judging you. I was surprised. Curious even. And now? Well… I’m curiouser still.”

Stiles isn’t prepared for this reaction, it seems. Maybe he was ready for outrage, sanctimony, or at the very least teasing, but as it is he wilts under Peter’s heated gaze. “Oh god,” he groans. “You _would_ find this sexy. You’re probably… Oh GOD—you’re probably into all of that, aren’t you?” He winces, crawls onto his bed and under the covers as if this will shield him. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

It only takes the feeling of Peter’s weight coming onto the bed to know that the man is not about to respect the request. “So you bring them home,” he postulates calmly, though inside he’s growing increasingly aroused at the idea. “And you use all of that? Hmm?”

Stiles groans beneath his blanket. “No! Jesus Christ. Not all of it!” 

“Some of it then.”

“Yes!” Stiles yanks the blanket down, glaring defensively at the nerve of this man. “Yes, I bring them home, and we do all sorts of kinky shit. Are you happy?” 

“Nearly,” Peter mutters. Coming in a bit closer to Stiles, enough to make the boy self-conscious, Peter asks him, “Are you always the one who takes it?”

He doesn’t have to define ‘it’. They’re both grown men, they both know the possibilities. Sex, bondage, pain, whatever there is to take. Stiles stares at him for a long time, understanding blooming in his eyes. “Always,” he says, and then, “You’re interested.” Strangely enough, he doesn’t look repulsed. Stiles looks… intrigued. 

“I…” Peter is going to deny that without a thought, but something stops him. “I might be,” he says instead.

Stiles licks his lips, equal parts anxious and confused. “Have you ever—”

“No, I haven’t.” Peter eyes him deadly seriously, feeling himself falling into the wolfsbane-induced pit of bad decisions that he’s had coming since he went out that night. “But—”

“Pick something from the cabinet,” Stiles blurts, as if he’s saying it before some other part of him can exercise control. “I want you to.”

_Fuck _. Peter knows he shouldn’t. There is something about Stiles, and the cabinet, and the wolves, and the bruises that screams _maladaptive behavior patterns_ , but Peter feels Stiles wiggle next to him and all he wants is to be the next person to put a bruise on that skin. “One more question,” he nearly growls when he smells Stiles’ arousal through the blankets. “Is it because of your dad?”__

__Stiles stares over at him with eyes that look like pretty pools of whiskey, and he admits, “I think so.”_ _

__Any sane person would end it there. Get off the bed, get the hell out, and refer a good grief therapist. But arguably, Peter has never been completely sane. He stays. He mashes his lips against Stiles’ and holds his wrists to the bed as soon as he starts trying to move them. Stiles moans into his mouth as if Peter’s grabbed his cock instead of his wrists, and it’s all downhill from there._ _

__\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--_ _

__Peter supposes that he really could have been more adventurous with his selection. But in all honesty, he’s been more interested in Stiles than in any of the… _accessories_ he came with. He puts the relatively nonthreatening items back into the armoire while Stiles is still in the bathroom washing their combined fluids off of himself. Peter’s closed the doors to the armoire by the time Stiles returns, again naked save for a towel. Peter himself is still stark naked, feeling no more compulsion to clothe himself than he does to remove the evidence of their activities from his skin. He won’t say it tonight, but he likes the smell of the kid clinging to him. He wishes Stiles wouldn’t have been so quick to wipe him away either. _ _

__“Ugh. Are you trying to win the game of ‘who can mark Stiles up the worst’?” Stiles complains from beside the bed where he’s come back to examine the large-ish bruise forming near his hipbone. Peter had gripped him—hard—then bitten and sucked at the same spot later on. He’s shucking on the same old pair of pajama bottoms when his eyes come up to meet Peter’s, and all Peter can do is shrug and smile at him._ _

__“I was under the impression that you liked it rough.”_ _

__“I do.”_ _

__Peter smiles some more. He ignores the needling voice in his head that whispers disapprovingly to him that _what people like_ and _what’s good for them_ aren’t always the same thing. “The need to mark is a wolf impulse,” he explains and, gesturing up and down the kid’s body, says, “but I guess you’ve figured that out.”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__Though he hates to be the responsible type, Peter can’t help but to remind, “It’s risky behavior what you’re doing.”_ _

__Stiles snorts and trails out of the room towards the kitchen, knowing that Peter will hear him whether he chooses to follow or not. “I always play safe,” he says, voice just the slightest bit petulant. Peter thinks that it reveals his immaturity._ _

__“I wasn’t referring to STD’s,” Peter drawls. The sound of the refrigerator opening and the artificial smell of conditioned air meet Peter’s senses. He can hear the clink of whatever bottle Stiles is pouring himself a drink from. A second later he smells expensive vodka. “How many wolves do you think you’ll have to take home,” he says as he emerges from the bedroom, “before something happens?”_ _

__Stiles stares at him from over the countertop. In his hand is a lowball glass from which he sips with slitted eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific,” he says in a bored voice. “What exactly am I supposed to be wary of ‘happening’?”_ _

__“Oh I don’t know. Being bitten?” Peter says. “Or mauled, or eaten.”_ _

__“Please.”_ _

__Peter feels frustration bubble up at Stiles’ nonchalant attitude. There’s nothing worse than an ignorant teenager, except maybe an ignorant college kid. “You don’t think Scott was the first case of a newly-turned wolf without control, do you?” Peter tries to impress upon Stiles that he’s being serious—and hey: maybe he is. “He certainly wasn’t the last, that’s for sure. You could easily wind up being some man’s date _and_ dinner. Is that what you want? Does that play into your masochistic fantasies or whatever the hell it is you’re doing here?!”_ _

__Stiles looks surprised at his tone. Perhaps he never expected Peter of all people, to give a damn about whether or not his extracurricular activities qualified as risky. He takes another sip from his glass before setting it down. “I’m not a masochist,” he says. His voice barely carries the conviction that he wishes it did._ _

__“Could have fooled me.”_ _

__Stiles scowls. “Even if I was, what makes it ANY of your business, huh?” he takes another angry sip. “I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. Now why don’t you just leave.”_ _

__It’s not a request, but neither is it an order. Stiles seems more intent on plopping himself on the living room couch to continue drinking than he does on forcing Peter to leave his apartment. Being the busy body that he is, Peter of course doesn’t leave. He sits down on the couch as well, watches the kid as he drinks more alcohol than he should, and wonders what signs the rest of the pack must have missed to not see what a downward spiral the sheriff’s death was going to throw Stiles into. “Is this how it’s been since you started college?” he eventually asks. He doesn’t necessarily expect an answer, so it’s a surprise when Stiles quietly says,_ _

__“Yeah.” His voice is quiet. Tired maybe, too tired to be angry for long. “Not at first. At first it was… worse.”_ _

__“Worse?” Peter almost laughs before he remembers that that would be inappropriate. “How?”_ _

__Stiles shrugs. “I mean I wasn’t sleeping around with werewolves. But I was still getting drunk, hurting myself.”_ _

__“Those cuts on your arms?”_ _

__“Yeah,” Stiles is quick to say. “And…other stuff.”_ _

__Peter almost asks what, but then decides that he doesn’t want to know. “You’ve dropped out?” he asks instead, and Stiles giggles. _Giggles_ , of all things. Peter figures he’s lost whatever measure of sobriety the last hour has gained him. “You didn’t drop out?”_ _

__“NO. That’s half of why I’m still hooking up with wolves every night. Tuition is expensive.” Stiles turns to stare down the couch at Peter, looking like a loose-lipped drunk who’s trying to stall long enough to figure out if this is a secret that he’ll regret telling the next day. “I make money off of it,” he finally says._ _

__Peter blinks. He’s not shocked, not after everything else he’s discovered in Stiles’ apartment tonight. But it is weird to him that Stiles, a human, would find any amount of success in prostituting himself out to werewolves. Due to rules of supply and demand, the industry tended to work the other way around. “They… pay you for this?” he asks, juuust to clarify._ _

__But Stiles rolls his eyes. “Well, not _them_ exactly.” He chews his lip, gauging Peter’s reactions. “You saw the camera set up in my room.”_ _

__“Yes. I—” _Oh_. Suddenly Peter thinks he gets it. “That… wasn’t for some class to do with your graphic arts major,” he guesses._ _

__Stiles giggles again, and Peter thinks that it is the most unnatural sound coming from the kid. “Nope.”_ _

__“So what? You sell the tapes?” Peter’s heard of human/werewolf pornography (any yeah, maybe he’s seen some too), but it’s under-the-rug sort of stuff. He wonders how Stiles even discovered who to sell it to. “You must have some connections on the black market,” he surmises. “To have clients interested in such a… select variety of kinks.”_ _

__“If that’s what you call people who know about werewolves and want to watch videos of them fucking people, then yeah.” The crassness of it is very non-Stiles. It’s a small window into how much the kid has changed in the past nine months, and Peter doesn’t like it._ _

__\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--_ _

__Right away Peter asks if he can see the videos. Stiles just laughs, doesn’t get how badly Peter wants to see them, and says no. The films of Stiles being held down and tied down and taken advantage of by wolves who likely have no idea how much they’re hurting the boy who moans beneath them remain a secret. Peter asks if he can see the videos the second time he finds himself lying in Stiles’ bed, half out of morbid curiosity and half out of genuine arousal. Stiles still says no._ _

__It’s their third time, a time when Peter’s stayed longer than he should have and he’s rubbing the scent of his own saliva into a play bite at Stiles’ neck—though Stiles doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing—when Peter sees another new line along the kid’s forearm and finally says what he’s been wanting to say. “You should probably stop being so familiar with the razor blades.”_ _

__Stiles being the astute drunk that he is of course understands his meaning right away. His bare shoulders tense up and he pulls away from Peter’s touches. “You don’t have any right to tell me what to do or not to do,” he says gruffly._ _

__Peter can tell that he’s desperate for him to drop the subject. “I’m not asking why you do it,” he says first, having to force himself not to resume his lazy touches. “I’m sure you… have your reasons. But I’m just saying, with the way you drink… you might mess up one time. I’d hate to come over for one of these drunk fucks only to find you bled out in the bathroom.” It’s as unfeeling and as casual as he can make it, and Peter knows that’s the only reason Stiles doesn’t kick him out for his presumptuousness._ _

__The next time Peter visits, there are no new fresh cuts.  
\--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--_ _

__When he sees Stiles again it’s three weeks later when the whole pack is at the waterpark. They make quite the hilarious caravan, what with all their chairs and beach bags and coolers. Peter’s got swim trunks the color of Kool-Aid on, and he might actually feel good about how he’s half naked and in good shape and probably looking pretty awesome, except that Erica’s toddler’s leash is in his left hand, and the same said toddler’s diaper bag is in his right. This is, of course, exactly how Stiles spots him as he approaches the pack._ _

__“Stiles!” Scott is too shocked that Stiles has finally deigned to join the pack— _the_ pack—in a social outing, to say anything much more intelligible. He certainly doesn’t ask any meaningful questions. Because the last time that Stiles willingly poked his head out of his self-imposed exile and questions were asked, he’d quickly left again. So Scott just tells Stiles how glad he is to see him, how happy he is that he came. He grabs his best friend in a hug while everyone else waves and heads towards the locker rooms. It’s supposed to be the first time that Peter’s seen Stiles in months, so he manages a nonchalant wave as well._ _

__They’ve established their territory. A tightly-clustered network of umbrellas and chairs, along with Ridley’s shade tent and kiddy pool, constitute the claim they’ve staked in the grass. And it is substantial. Peter’s on guard duty while the others swim and fool around in the pools. He’s got one eye on Ridley while she sleeps in the tent, and the other on a book he’s brought along. It’s only when someone approaches across the grass that he’s interrupted. “Can I grab a towel?” Stiles asks while wiping water from his eyes._ _

__Peter allows himself a few seconds too long to admire the way that Stiles looks when he’s fresh out of the water. His body is dripping wet, swim trunks plastered against his legs. He’s a sopping mess that walks over to their umbrella fort with far too much assuredness of his belonging, asking _so presumptuously_ for a towel. Peter hates how quickly he responds to it. “Sure,” he says, stretching back to grab one of the beach towels from their supply. Stiles takes it and dries off, eventually using it to line the seat of a chair upon which he deposits himself. “What happened?” Peter asks coolly. “You get tuckered out in the wave pool too?”_ _

__Stiles glances back towards the water, where Erica is still on Boyd’s shoulders trying to knock Lydia off of Aiden, or Cora off Derek. Now partnerless, Malia is resigned to being the referee, screaming out arbitrary rules. “Yeah,” Stiles laughs, turning back and sinking further into his chair. It’d been fun hoisting Malia around but…“Guess so.”_ _

__“We have a nap room now.” Peter indicates the shade tent in which Ridley is sleeping. “Feel free to share.”_ _

__Stiles frowns, staring at the fat-faced little girl with honey brown curls. “She’d cry if I did. She doesn’t remember me.”_ _

__Peter puts his book down. “What did you expect? She was almost still an infant when you left.”_ _

__Really, Stiles can offer no response to that. Instead he just looks at Peter. It’s funny how normal he looks, sitting here in his swimsuit in the grass, watching the baby and everyone’s stuff. It almost makes him seem… normal. Almost. The longer Stiles stares, the more Peter’s mouth curves upwards in the barest smirk. It makes Stiles frown all over again. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he decides._ _

__“Don’t be stupid. Of course you should have. Scott’s missed you. They all have.”_ _

__“And you?”_ _

__“You can only miss what you don’t have,” Peter quips, and he’s not unaware of how this comment seems to distress Stiles._ _

__“Do they know? Peter… You haven’t told them, have you?!”_ _

__Peter nearly snorts. “Do you really think I’d be sitting here with all of my body parts intact if I had?” He makes a dismissive sound in his throat. “Of course I haven’t told them.”_ _

__Stiles is quiet for a bit. As if he doesn’t know what to say, or perhaps even how to feel. “Good,” he says. It’s all he really needs to say, or wants to. He has a hard enough time reconciling what he does with Peter drunk. He really doesn’t care to sit at a water park and do it sober. He’d prefer not to think about it at all. So he goes back to a tried and true tactic: changing the topic. “How are… things? With the pack I mean.”_ _

__“You really want to know?” Peter looks at Stiles like he understands him very well, and Stiles doesn’t like that one bit. “You left them, remember?”_ _

__“Yes. I remember. And I still want to know.”_ _

__“The pack is fine. Still regrouping, but we’re all fine. It’s been awkward trying to find suitable housing now that everyone’s basically been living together. Derek found an affordable apartment closer to the city and we’re still moving in.”_ _

__“Everyone’s living there?” Stiles sounds surprised. “Even You?” A second later he looks amused. “That must be interesting.”_ _

__“You have no idea,” Peter drawls. “The two year old version of Erica can be… loud.” He points accusingly at the sleeping toddler. “Don’t let that sleeping visage fool you; she’s a terror. Other than that, everyone’s going to school or working. Allison’s the one who’s been home the most.”_ _

__Stiles looks up. “Because of…”_ _

__“Yes. She’s tired and sick a lot of the time. And a hormonal lunatic the rest of it.”_ _

__“Hey!” Stiles sees the attack coming. He snorts in laughter a split second before a plastic toy whacks Peter on the shoulder. It’s Allison, who has approached from behind Peter and doesn’t look pleased. “Watch who you call lunatic,” she warns with a threatening brandish of sand shovel._ _

__“Or what?”_ _

__“Or I’ll kill you and eat you to nourish my unborn spawn, that’s what,” she chirps, crawling inside the shade tent to curl herself around Ridley. “Now don’t bother me please. The princess and I are napping.”_ _

__Peter growls a little but winds up ignoring her. Allison is alarmingly fast in falling asleep in the tent, a soft snore eventually coming from her direction. Stiles can’t help but to stare. “She seems tired.”_ _

__“She’s six months pregnant with a werewolf’s child. What do you expect?” Peter seems bored and has picked up his book again. Eventually Scott trails back from the snack stand, Kira and a bag of hotdogs in tow._ _

__He passes Stiles a dog and Stiles takes it gratefully. “Any other werebabies in the making that I should know about?” he asks through the mouthful of his first bite._ _

__Kira looks shocked, but Scott laughs. “Yeah, no Stiles. We’re not quite ready for that kind of craziness yet.” Kira nods enthusiastically. “So… how about you? How’s Berkley? Meet anyone new?”_ _

__He says it carefully but kindly, like he’s hoping that maybe even though his best friend has cut him out, that he’s found someone to fill the gap. Stiles tenses up, thinking of Peter and any number of other men he’s had back at the apartment in recent months. “I—” he dares to glance towards Peter for a millisecond. Thankfully, the man is reading his book as if the conversation bores him. “Yeah, my professors and stuff. Other freshmen around campus. They’re cool.”_ _

__Scott looks like he knows that he’s missing something, but not exactly what. “Oh. Cool.” He eyes the bruises on Stiles’ body with suspicion. “Nobody’s giving you a hard time?”_ _

__Stiles just shrugs and makes up some lie about a wild house party. “I’m only human,” he jokes, though it’s no joke at all._ _

__Later, when the sun is setting and everyone is trudging towards the parking lot, Peter stares at Stiles’ naked back and thinks of how he was the one to put at least a few of those bruises there. Despite the very obvious need to keep this secret from everyone else, Peter knows that he’s likely to do it again. After all, of everyone in the pack, he’s the one most known for repeating his mistakes._ _


End file.
